This Milton for his plan will chuse: Wherein resembling Milton's Muse? Milton, like thunder, rolls along In all the majesty of song; While his low mimics meanly creep, Not quite awake, nor quite asleep: Or, if their thunder chance to roll, 'Tis thunder of the mustard bowl. The stiff expression, phrases strange, The epithet's preposterous change, Forc'd numbers, rough and unpolite, Such as the judging ear affright, Stop in mid verse. Ye mimics vile! Is't thus ye copy Milton's style? His faults religiously you trace, But borrow not a single grace.
